Some Touch of Erik
by Rose Esterhazy
Summary: A young man on a journey stumbles upon a story. A story about the man, who at one time was the Phantom of the Opera and of the people whose lives he touched... EC, RC, 04movieverse with a few significant twists.
1. The Devil's Grandchild

**Introduction:**

_Here it is. My first, serious attempt at writing._

_I realise that the relationship between the main characters may be slightly confusing at first, so therefore this short introduction:_

_Charles-Raoul de Chagny is accompanying his father, Raoul de Chagny, on a business-trip to Vienna. So far the journey has been a strained affair as father and son have spent very little time together since Charles was born. Charles (and his four siblings) has been raised by their mother Christine and her "new husband" Comte Erik Tascher, whom Charles loves as a father._

_Apart from being a renowned composer, architect and patron of the Palais Garnier, Comte Tascher is extremely secretive - especially about his past, which mystifies his five children as it is supposedly uneventful. But in Vienna Charles meets Prince Richárd Eszterházy, who makes some startling accusations about Erik. This leads Charles to question his beloved stepfather - but is any of them ready for the consequences?_

_Who is Richárd Eszterházy? And what exactly is his motive for egging Charles, Erik, Christine and Raoul towards the final Point of No Return?_

_But, more importantly, who is Comte Erik Tascher?_

_This is his story._

_And now, without further ado - Some Touch of Erik. I very much hope you like it._

_Rose_

**Disclaimer: **I don't own The Phantom of the Opera.

**Some Touch of Erik**

Part I

"_The Devil's Grandchild"- covering the years 1832-1855_

Vienna – December 6th 1904

My darling Siss,

The first letter from Vienna – and you know I never write letters. But here I am, with Father, doing exactly what I don't want to do. I am acting the part of the perfect son of a Vicomte. It's snowing, at home I would have snow ball fights with you, Gustave, Auguste and Rose – or listening to Erik singing and playing the piano or violin. In stead I am sitting in a hotel room, restless and homesick. Writing to you is my only consolation. I dare not write Maman or Erik – they were not pleased with my decision to go. I could write to Gustave, of course, but somehow I suspect such a letter will not be welcome. He probably still thinks that I have betrayed Erik by coming with Father on this trip. But, Maddo, how else would I ever get to see this city? Erik has always flat out refused to go on any tour involving Vienna – but at the same time arguing that no self-respecting musician could live without experiencing Vienna. Why let me get the best musical education if I am never to leave France? Therefore, as I see it, He basically forced me to go with Father, when Father offered me the chance of a lifetime!

But I will not repeat the angry words that came before my departure. You see, all the arguments born out of that decision, all the battles fought and won by my "youthful pride and arrogance" have been in vain. The supreme musical experience is not to be mine; I am merely assisting Father in his business – and occasionally allowed the role of a normal, ignorant tourist. I have not received violin lessons, there have been precious few concerts and operas (no meeting with any musicians) and I have not been allowed to stop and enjoy the music in the streets. With my schedule of lunches with directors and financiers, dinners at the houses of prospective brides I have had no time for music. Think of that; no music.

Well, I have been here for a fortnight and this is my first quiet moment. Father is in his rooms, meeting a possible investor or other, who, apparently, might be more receptive without my presence. That's a first. Normally I'm never let out of his sight.

Our hotel is downright luxurious – marble columns, gold candelabras, flowers everywhere, and more servants than guests. (Father's business must have gone well in the past few years to afford staying in such a place.) I have my own suite – with a bathroom, a balcony and an excellent view of the Stephansdom (the enormous Viennese Cathedral; not nearly as elegant as our Notre-Dame!). However, my suite is connected to Father's by an adjoining door. I am never entirely alone. Today, he has already been in here three times (it's noon), asking my opinion on where to dine, what to see (we have seen several museums and art galleries, we have visited many shops) – and as a treat: which opera to go to. He startled me with that question. Father has made it very clear that he does not approve of me having any musical interests.

Being with Father is far from easy. Though he is in many ways a kind and generous man (we have purchased quite a few gifts for you), he is also impossible talk to. He has a polite answer to any question, more often than not accompanied with a smile. But it seems a façade, a shield nothing unconventional can penetrate. Father is actually quite old fashioned. I am surprised that he is involved in business; that he doesn't stay at home at the chateau. I tried to ask him why on the train. My answer was a smile and a verbal pat on the head. Do not trouble yourself, my son. After an hour or so of such reactions to any question, I gave up and retreated behind a treatise on playing violin in Vivaldi-style (You know I'm having such trouble with his concerts). Father's voice cut through my readings. He asked my opinion on the latest developments in the senate (of which I have none). When I finally had deflected all his inquiries and picked up my book, he looked almost pained._ Charles, please put that book away. It is not fitting reading for a vicomte. In fact, it is beneath you._ Then he reached over and took my book – and threw it out of the train window. I have never heard him speak that way before, much less do such a thing.

I was much too shocked to protest, but wondered if that attitude is why Maman left him. Imagine Maman living for 10 years with a man, who doesn't approve of music? Erik, on the other hand, is the living breathing music. However, I know that there is a music room at Father's chateau (though nothing like ours at Malmaison) – so why this strange attitude, why this intense dislike? If my previous conversations with Father are anything to go by I shall never know the answer. The shield of politeness will prevent that. Anyway, I am hiding my sheet music – I do not want him to tear it to pieces… I may be a vicomte by birth, but I am a musician by upbringing. And choice.

Maddo, I shall have to leave now. Father is knocking on the door, apparently he has great news.

We're going to…

Later – 4 AM,

Maddo, I have been at the Schönbrunn Palace tonight!!! I have spoken to the Emperor (well, it was just a 'good evening Your Majesty' but still, it's more than you!). I have danced with one of the most beautiful women in the world – accompanied by the best orchestra, ever! It surpassed even the orchestra at the Garnier. In fact, I have only heard one person play better than those musicians (you know who it is). I was positively intoxicated by the sound; it resonated through every corner of the palace. I swear, we could hear even from the fine carriage sent by Father's friend, a duke no less. I heard the lilting, inviting notes of a waltz. I could feel my smile emerge and spread to my eyes. I felt transformed, uplifted – I had begun to despair of ever experience anything like that here in the City of Music. Father looked horrified and said the most astounding thing -

"You look like your Mother, Charles. All consumed by music."

He has never mentioned her before. He has mentioned you a couple of times, enquiring after your health and so on, but never Maman. Did you notice that he didn't greet her at the train station, when we left?

With his words ringing in my ears we stepped out of the carriage, the new fallen snow crushing under our feet. I so wish that you could have been here, so you might have seen the palace dressed in Christmas splendour. The courtyard was full of carriages, people dressed for gala. There were soldiers in fine uniforms, carrying torches lighting up the whole courtyard. I looked up; every window was filled with light. It was the most spectacular sight I have ever seen. I felt Father squeeze my hand; I looked at him – he was really looking at me. Maddo, I think that was the first time he really noticed me. He gave me a strange look. Bittersweet, I think. Then he spoke._ Do it, Charles, follow the music – just like your Mother before you._

I followed the music.

It has been an evening with music of the most exquisite kind, but also an evening of strangeness. Father's remark was merely the beginning. When we entered the great ballroom, a room so big I think Malmaison entire would fit in – with room to spare, the orchestra finished their previous number and immediately began another. But that number, I swear – Maddo, it sounded like it was written by Erik. It contained phrases that were lifted directly out of The Spanish Opera. It was completely different from what they had been playing before; I could see it in the bemused faces of the dancers. They stopped for a couple of moments, but then it was as if the music seized them – its passion luring, beckoning more people on the dance floor. Father gripped my shoulder hard – he recognised the music, too. But where would he have heard it? Erik says Don Juan Triumphant has never been performed in its entirety. However, it ended strangely, changing into a traditional waltz. Though beautiful and seductive in its own right, it was nothing compared to the passion expressed in the beginning. In my ears, it was as if the composer (the Court Violinist, we were told) had only seen parts of Erik's score and had had to fill in the blanks. However, Father looked relieved at the change, muttering something about bizarre coincidences. I was convinced it was no coincidence.

Father nudged me in the direction of a very pretty girl, who had just come off the dance floor. I approached her, like a dutiful son, and asked to dance with her. Normally looking into a pair of eyes so blue and so innocent make me think thoughts not so innocent. (Don't mock me, Maddo) Now I just longed to be introduced to the Court Violinist. A little careful prodding and the blue-eyed vision told me what I wanted to know – the Court Violinist is Prince Richárd Eszterházy, an impoverished scion of the great Hungarian family. A virtuoso, he is also a strange character – reclusive and always dressed in black. During a particular difficult turn in the quadrille my sweet Vision told me that he never smiles. A shy smile and a blushing compliment from me and I had his address. A few more turns, a few more niceties and she offered to lead me to his rooms. Though he has a suite in one of the Eszterházy palaces, due to his connections and his position, he also has a suite at Schönbrunn.

It was two floors up. The music became almost inaudible. Again, I had this feeling of strangeness. I remembered Erik talking of his childhood, of a palace filled with music, but also with floors so quiet it seemed the music would never enter. I know, there are countless palaces in the world, Maddo, but I felt the presence of Erik so strong, as if he was walking next to me. I felt cold in the hallway, shuddering. The girl next to me leaned conspiratorially closer, a scent of white jasmine filling my nostrils. Listen. I listened and heard the faint sounds of a single violin floating out from under a door further down the corridor. Music so beautiful; sensual, beckoning, and strangely passionate. The trademark of Erik, none other could have composed the notes filling the air.

Have you ever had the feeling that a simple action could change your life? Turning the doorknob, our feet creaking on the floorboards; opening the doors to a new world. It was almost a disappointment to find ordinary furniture, mahogany tables, burgundy brocade walls and armchairs. However, he was there. Standing in front of the windows, with his back to us, all dressed in black, violin perched elegantly on the shoulder – with the whiteness behind him he looked gothic – all black and white. As he remained in the same pose and the music continued, I began to doubt that he had even heard us. Then, it happened – the virtuoso's hand wavered. He was in doubt of what to play next! As I knew exactly where he was in the aria –

"It's a B flat, Your Highness."

My companion froze. The violin left the shoulder. He turned; surprise clearly in the haughty blue eyes.

"How would you know?"

"My step-father wrote that aria."

"Then you are Charles… The son of…"

"Yes."

"Excuse us, my dear, the vicomte and I will discuss boring musical stories for a while. Run back to your admirers, there's a good girl."

Maddo, I'm sad to say I had forgotten her. Completely. In fact, I'm not even certain that acknowledged her leaving. The prince had that effect on me. In this dark room, the moon shining in through the windows, I felt understood and at home. You see, he looks slightly like Maman's old photograph of Erik (you know, the one on her nightstand). Dark, unkempt hair – most of it in a ponytail, but one or two strands dangling in front of his eyes. His face is so white and he is so thin that he looks as if he has spent years locked away, but his features are nice. I expect most of your chatterbox friends would adore him, if not for the danger that he somehow exudes. (Perhaps they would adore him because of that?) But it was the eyes that reminded me of Erik. Haunted eyes that have seen all the sadness in the world. They beg you to stay, yet command you to leave at the same time. What has the world done to him?

Our Erik has always looked like that. He has never taken anything for granted, but always seemed surprised that we love him so much. That's why it hurt arguing with him, causing Erik such pain was awful. Maman mentioned dark memories by way of explaining his hurt, but I always assumed she was protecting him. Or at the very least, that she was overstating matters greatly. She wasn't. If anything I now think Maman was understating things. Probably because He has never trusted Maman with his story; He was afraid if she knew, she would leave. That has always been His worst fear, even when Maman is asleep in His arms having been sung to sleep. Erik has always feared that Maman would blame him for his life and leave. And after tonight, after what Richárd told me (assuming it's the truth)…

The door closed behind the girl.

"You are really the stepson of the Phantom of the Opera?"

"I beg your pardon? Oh, yes – I am. That's what they call him at the Garnier because he moves about so quietly. It's a silly old legend, really. They also call him the angel of music. His name…"

"I was under the impression that it had something to do with his deformed face…"

"His face has NOTHING to do with it! He was burned in the opera house fire 35 years ago! How dare you?"

His lips twitched; his 'smile' came and disappeared again.

"Forgive me, please. I didn't mean any offence. Doubtless I am misinformed; unreliable court gossip, you know? I am deeply sorry."

"Court gossip? No, I don't know. We Frenchmen do not have a court, as you may know. And I fail to see why my stepfather should be of such interest to the Austrian court. Perhaps because you steal his music! That piece you were playing so badly is called…"

"'She Walks in Beauty', yes I know. But you really shouldn't lie, Charles, even if you're angry. I was playing it very well indeed. I saw recognition in your eyes, one musician to another. You are known to be a very fine violinist, taught by one of the best – you know quality when you hear it. But if you wonder why Austria is interested in your stepfather; he was born here. Born in this very palace, possibly this very room."

"He was what,_ Richárd_? No, Erik is French."

"Yes, he is now. But before…Anyway, B flat, you say. Oh yes, it is beautiful…Thank you, Charles. I really am sorry. I am not used to talk civilly to people. Mostly they do not care to talk to me. I am a lesser prince Eszterházy forced to earn my keep, thus I am too high and too low at the same time."

At this point I didn't care. The spell created by the music was gone, another magical trick made by Erik. The world, however, is not lived in a state of heightened reality, but plain flat prose. Father would say as much and for once I was inclined to agree. I didn't know what to make of this bitter, but very talented prince. At the door, I heard the violin again. The music was making his apology for him, filling the room – recreating the powerful atmosphere; begging me to turn around and stay. He played and I began to believe. How could Erik not be born here, surrounded by music? I'd like him to be born here. So I sat down to listen to Erik's music played in Erik's room. Richárd really does play very well.

"You should write and ask him where he was born. I could be wrong, you know. But when I moved in here, I was told that the Phantom of the Opera was born here. But as it is well-known here that I regard Erik Tascher to be the greatest composer of all-time they could have been fooling me. He is a bit of a mystery…"

"Yes, he is. Even to his family. Actually I quite certain he's born in Evreux, which is an hour away from Paris. But doubtlessly he'd find it ironic that the Viennese claim he's born here. He hates this city."

"I know. He was offered the position as Court Composer just after the trial. He refused. It created quite a stir. But tell me, how did they react to…"

"The Spanish piece? That also caused 'quite a stir', but also produced some beautiful dancing. How did you get the notes for that; he never finished that piece."

"But Charles, your step-father didn't write that. It was written by the first Phantom of the Opera, who burned down the opera house."

"Richárd, you really are special. You believe in ghost stories? That fire was caused by the great chandelier crashing. It was a horrible disaster, but there was no 'Phantom' involved. I'll ask my sister, Louisa Madeleine, she knows the whole story. You know that Erik was the architect on the new chandelier; that one will never crash. He has made certain of that and as for the music, I am quite…"

"Your Majesty, cousin, how wonderful it is to see you tonight. May I introduce…"

I had not even heard the door open. But there he was, the Emperor of Austria, 3 feet away. I scrambled to my feet. He acknowledged my greeting, but beckoned Richárd to accompany him. I hastened to follow. I walked behind them back to the ballroom, where they were met with applause. Father came for me; nervously wondering where I'd been – but on looking into my eyes sadly concluding that I had been' chasing music'. I danced a couple of dances with my vision; she is really beautiful, sweet and charming. Her name is Marianna. When she left, Father smilingly informed me that her father was one of the financiers I met last week. I felt I liked her rather less after that information. We made ready to go home, but not before Richárd had introduced himself and persuaded Father to come for tea three days from now.

"Give my regards to the Phantom", he whispered and ran up the staircase at breakneck speed. After which Father and I drove to our hotel, in absolute silence.

I have a distinct feeling this journey will be the making or the breaking of me. It has already been filled to the brim with emotion. I do not know how much more I can take. I have already hurt Erik and now I have to pry into his past. He will not like that. However, I can at least start with making amends.

So, please, give my love to Erik and Maman – and little Gustave and the girls.

I remain your obedient servant and Brother,

Charles-Raoul, vicomte de Chagny


	2. Maddo's Reply

Rueil-en-Malmaison, Paris – December 11th 1904

Dearest Charles

I write this sitting at Maman's desk listening to the sound of Papa playing furiously on the piano. It can be heard all over the house despite the double doors of the music room being firmly closed. He has been playing like that for the past couple of hours – despite the somewhat relaxed atmosphere at dinner. He's playing as if completely obsessed, playing as if he was trying to frighten off a whole pack of wolves. Maman tries to behave as if nothing is out of the ordinary, but both Rose and I can sense the tension in her. She is sitting at the table in the living room, ostensibly drawing the illustrations that will accompany Papa's latest cycle of songs, but I'm quite certain that she has been working at the same drawing all day. I keep hearing the angry, forceful scratch of the pen for a few moments, followed by silence. Georges has been on edge all day, if I had been in my normal cheerful mood I would have found the idea of our gentle butler dancing attendance upon the closed music room doors quite hilarious. But today I do not find it in me to laugh, barely even smile. It feels like those awful days of the trial.

We are as on needles, all waiting for the doors to open again. Auguste peers out into the hallway every 5 minutes, our placid and gentle Rose is restless, her temper flaring. Even Gustave in the midst of his exam preparations has taken notice; he opened his door upstairs for a few seconds and shouted down the staircase for Papa to quieten down a bit! When that didn't work, he bolted down the staircase and asked Maman for some rags to put in his ears. Mission accomplished; as he trudged back upstairs he passed me, mumbling –

"The most important exam on the History of Architecture is tomorrow. I am the top of that class, but I might fail this exam anyway because I cannot concentrate on my studying. I am the son of the greatest composer of our time and he has chosen this day of all to invent the Angry Music!" Then he darted out the door before Maman would take him to task for disrespecting Papa. But she merely looked quietly at him, saying nothing. I frightens me that Maman is so worried…Papa has been in a bad mood before, though never quite like this. But what is she hiding from us?

This is a sad letter, indeed, and I'm sorry for it, Charles. You know well my opinion of your decision to go, but you have not deserved to be the cause of this oppressive atmosphere that has ruled this house for the past day and night. Nevertheless, my sweet headstrong little brother, you are. But, pray, do not be too sad, both Maman and Papa send their love to you – they miss you dreadfully. We all do. You would have been happy to see the smiles on their faces yesterday, when the letter arrived. We were at the breakfast table when Georges came in the door with one of the finest silver plates in his hands. I was about to faint when he stopped on my left side and bowed slightly.

"A letter from young master Charles, mademoiselle Louisa."

Maman smiled at me from across the table. Gustave and Auguste both reached out for me to hand one of them your letter. Gustave actually stole it, before I had even had a chance to look at the envelope.

"Maddo, do you think he might have gone to any balls?"

"Charles does not care for balls unless there's music! No, Maddo, has he eaten at Hotel Sacher? I had a friend, who ate there and he said…"

"Let Maddo read her letter and then perhaps, if you are well behaved, she might be persuaded to let you see the letter. Gustave, really, you are such a…!" Rose was furious with him. Maman tried to mediate and Auguste intervened on Gustave's behalf. Then we all turned our heads.

At his end of the table, Papa sat laughing out loud and boisterous, like a young man. Laughing as he has not done in months, well before the inflammation of his lungs.

"Oh, my darling children! I think this breakfast is over. My Angel, I need you to read through the song I wrote this morning; I'm not satisfied with the last verse. Gustave, you scoundrel, hand the letter to your sister. She will no doubt let you see it later, that is, if you ever learn to behave."

While he spoke, Papa had risen from his chair, caressed Maman's cheek and playfully tweaked Gustave's nose. As he passed me, his eyes became tender; a smile. "My girl…" Then he left the room, singing under his breath. Gustave handed me the letter. Despite having been at loggerheads only a few minutes before, we all looked at each other joyfully. Erik's himself again. All is well…All was well.

I saved the reading of your letter until well after lunch. Auguste and Gustave had eyed me increasingly impatient all morning. At lunch, even Rose seemed annoyed with me (and you know how difficult it is to annoy her! – she is determined to think the best of the world and everyone in it; hence, I suppose, Papa's pet name for her, 'Little Angel'). I must admit I took some pleasure in keeping them on the hop. Guilty pleasures, indeed, but for once I was the interesting one and I admit freely that I enjoyed it very much. At the lunch table, Papa and Maman kept looking at me, then grinning at each other with yet another secret joke between them. At one point I simply stared back at Maman, feeling both appalled and wickedly delighted by my brazen behaviour. When I returned the glance, Maman at first seemed surprised, and then she actually winked at me before resuming her conversation with Papa. I suddenly felt a part of our parents' world; it filled me with joyous laughter. I even had an inclination to partake in Auguste's incessant conversation about nothing particular at all. One should always share one's good fortune.

Later I sat alone in the salon with your letter in my hands, looking out through the windows on the frost-covered garden, (even your favourite roses have surrendered to the cold winds of winter) knowing that when I was done my life and everyone else in this family would be changed. And how could it not be? The peaceful existence here at Malmaison has always been conditional on being separate from the life of Raoul de Chagny.

Then I read; lost myself in your world, allowed entry into a world of music and magic I've never been able to access. I felt the familiar stab of jealousy, brief but merciless. You are everything I sometimes long to be, but only in my weak moments. Where you're sensitive, extremely musically gifted, I'm calm and dependable with the musical talent normally required for aristocratic girls – but nothing more. In our untraditional family of geniuses, I'm the mediocre one. Every word you used to describe our de Chagny Father could very well be applied to me. But, Charles, don't be embarrassed – I'm not chastising you, merely stating a fact. It is who I am.

Before I returned to your telling of the Palace ball, I raised my head again. Taking in my surroundings, the winter sun shining in through the windows, the pink hyacinths on the table (in Papa's favourite 'Christmas' vase – Maman asked Georges to take it out yesterday), the sound of Maman and Papa's voices blending in the music room, a song of first love filling my ears – sweet and innocent. I heard Maman's insincere protestations followed by a muffled ecstatic laughter; they were kissing, Papa rejoicing in having fully recovered from the awful pneumonia and believing you to be happy in the City of Music. Believing that, for once, all was well in his world. I wanted to keep these images of perfect happiness with me, seal them in my heart. I sensed that your letter would break this peace forever.

The rest of your letter was so beautiful, so starry-eyed, unhappy and yet beautiful. I allowed the music of the language overtake me; I could hear your voice so clear. It was as if you were sitting next to me in the chair telling about your journey in retrospect. How I wished it was so. How I wished you had not gone at all, but in stead were here sitting in your chair by the fireplace, alternating between talking heatedly about Vivaldi or Camille Saint-Saëns and transcribing notes. I was overwhelmed by these strong longings and emotions as I have never been before; it surprised me that my steady world could be upset by reading a letter. I was so deep in contemplation that I barely heard Marie enter. At first I merely stared at her, I could not fathom what she could possibly want.

"Yes, Marie?"

"Monsieur Erik sent me to enquire whether you would like to have some light to read by."

I rose astonished from the chair, my back aching. The sun had begun its transition into dusk without me even noticing, the sky outside having that royal blue hue of early night which makes candles seem brighter. The salon lay in almost complete darkness. I nodded to Marie, who lit the candelabras one by one. They fluttered; a light draught must have caught them. She left silently as I sat down in the sofa; I was staring into their flames. Looking for an answer, how to deal with the consequences of your letter. Normally I would be able to shrug Prince Richárd's assertions off as malicious court gossip, but the honest tone you used made me wonder. What do we know of Papa's past?

But no, Charles, I cannot wonder… I must trust Papa. I must. I must! It is who I am.

Mind you, little brother, I'm not surprised of the Viennese claiming Papa to be born there. After all, when one is as reclusive and talented as Papa, there are bound to be rumours. I have heard many at the Opera. It is said that he is a cousin of the late emperor. But the worst is the one saying that he is the true Phantom of the Opera, using his imperial connections to escape being prosecuted for burning the old opera down. I know that the rumours are untrue, preposterous even, but Papa's substantial and constant support of the Opera combined with his fierce temper, his secretive nature, the mask makes him an obvious, ripe target. Even more so as every new rumour makes him desperately unhappy.

I once asked him why he never refuted the rumours. His reply frightened me; for a while he was silent - his eyes where almost burning with anger and his fists were clenched. He rose to his full height, towering nearly a head above me. He looked…menacing! I had never seen this side of Papa before – though I had heard about it from ridiculously frightened journalists seeking interviews with Papa. I have always thought them childish – to be scared by a mere man – but at that moment I fully understood them. And I fully understood why Papa has always taken pains to keep his bad moods confined to the solitude of the music room. He must have noticed my fear, for after an indrawn breath the anger vanished and my gentle Papa returned. He embraced me, saying:

"Oh, my Girl – I'm sorry that you should see this appalling temper of mine. It simply infuriates me that my past should be such an object of curiosity. But I refuse to feed their need for scandal – of which my past is sorely lacking, my dear – so I ignore them. As your uncle Firmin would say, perhaps the curiosity will sell tickets to the new opera?"

As I left him, I vowed never to be the cause of one of his bad moods again.

Until I read your letter, I had forgotten this episode – if not the vow. Charles, I know Papa merely reigned in his temper because it was me asking this question – but will he be able to do that after reading your letter? Those detested rumours now brought back into his life by his own stepson. There will be no escaping them now. He will feel trapped in a corner. That thought kept running through my head… and I resolved to hide or even burn your letter before Papa could read it. Unfortunately I wasn't so lucky. My thoughts were interrupted by Papa's hand on my shoulder.

"Little Darling, come to dinner. You've been sitting in here for an hour. What ever did Charles write you?"

Now Maman had entered the dark salon, at Papa's words she ran to my side.

"Is he alright, Maddo? Oh no, Darling, you look so…frightened. What is it?"

I didn't know what to say, so I looked quietly into the candles' flames, while I searched for the right words.

"What is it, My Girl? You know you can tell us anything. We must know if that man has… if Charles is in trouble?"

Papa's voice was gentle, soothing, but I heard the undercurrents of other emotions. I had to tell them, before they read your innocent words.

"Charles is fine; couldn't be happier, in fact. But he met a man in Vienna, who claims Papa was born there. This man was so certain about it that he dared Charles to write you and question it."

A swift movement; suddenly the letter had been torn from my hands. Papa moves fast. As it was dark I could not see his face, but Maman could. She placed her hand on his arm. He tore himself loose and turned his back to us, the letter all but crumbled in his fist. However, Maman, had not given up yet.

"Oh, Erik, another ridiculous rumour. Maddo, my sweet, that was quite a scare you gave us. Was that really necessary, Darling?"

Then it happened. Papa turned about to face us. He had that look again – anger and fear. This is more than mere temper, I fear. This was more than the beginnings of a bad mood, to which we are all accustomed. This was more…Again, as with me, he tried to get his emotions under control or at the very least mask them as something else. Under the rage was something else; fear. I don't understand it – Papa has nothing to hide. Nothing.

He left us without a word. Maman stretched out her hand, but stopped in mid-movement. She said nothing.

She let him go, Charles.

She didn't stop him.

"Erik, no…Not now." A whisper he would not hear. The door to the music room was firmly shut. We both heard the sound of the key being turned; he was locking the doors. He has never done that before. At that sound, Maman sank into a chair, head in her hands.

"Maman, please…I'm frightened. Can you not stop him?"

She looked at me, trying to smile. The fear in her eyes made her look like Papa without his mask.

"Do not worry, my darling, Papa will be alright. You had better tell Georges to put Papa's supper on a tray and place it outside the door."

I didn't move from her side, I'm not certain she expected me to. We both tried to pretend this was not foreign territory. We both tried to pretend. Unsuccessfully.

I became aware of the sounds of this house – more than I ever have before. I heard Gustave's door open and close, Auguste laughed somewhere upstairs, Rose was on the staircase. I could even hear Georges order Pierre and Sebastien about in the dining room. I listened for the missing sound; the music room was silent. No sound of the piano being played melancholically or frantically. Only silence. A silence, which started spreading through the house. It reigned at dinner. Our boisterous lunch conversation was now whispers, few and far apart. We were all staring at Papa's empty chair at the end of the table. We all waited for Papa to start recovering and coming back to us. None of us dared to voice the thought that this time…this time he might not.

Before dessert Maman excused herself and left us. We heard her footsteps recede down the corridor. She stopped in front of the doors to Papa's music room. Faint pleadings echoed down to us; they were met with silence at both ends. I rose and stepped into the brightly lit corridor. Maman sat crouched in front of the locked door, whispering through the keyhole; now begging. She paused, hoping for a reply. None came. Except a roar of furiously played piano keys – loud and painful; drowning out her entreaties. When she stopped talking, the music ceased.

I felt rather than heard Gustave and the girls behind me. My ears were exhausted. As if we were well-drilled soldiers, we all looked in other directions than the music room._ Do not look at Maman, humbly on her knees begging. Do not humiliate her further._ We sat in the salon as always, but only tonight in absolute silence. All listening to the music, but pretending that we didn't. Auguste pretended to read. Gustave pretended to study. I pretended to sow. Rose pretended to stare intently into the garden; in reality she was weeping. The whole house moved to the erratic rhythm of the music, Maman's whispered pleadings and their pauses. At 10, Rose turned away from the window and came to stand behind my chair. Her hand rested on my shoulder; a sign. I rose from my seat.

"Gustave, I think it is time for bed."

Two pairs of eyes met mine; both shocked at the sound of another's voice. Gustave obediently rose.

"No." Auguste shook her head. "I will wait for Papa and Maman. Let me read here."

"Auguste!"

"No, let her, Maddo. Let me get you a blanket and then I'll see you to bed, Rose."

Rose and I went upstairs with Gustave behind us; we didn't look at Maman as we passed her. However, the footsteps downstairs implied that Auguste had joined Maman at the door, Gustave likewise. I waited. A few minutes later I heard Gustave and Auguste come up the staircase. Maman did not want any witnesses. The music had died out again.

We all went to our beds. Defeated. Unhappy.

I awoke in the middle of the night to absolute silence. My overwrought brain immediately continued its abandoned train of thoughts. Within seconds I was close to tears. I sat in my bed, arms around my legs, quietly singing to the Angel of Music. What else would one do in an hour of need, when one is the daughter of the renowned soprano, Christine Daaé, and the esteemed composer, Comte Erik Tascher?

Out of habit my ears listened for sounds. And heard one sound in the nightly silence. His long fingers dancing over the keys of a piano, first hesitantly and slightly hysterical, then gently and evocative. Coaxing me to sleep by playing my favourite piece – and then Maman's. Softly, deftly; the music enveloping me like a warm blanket. _Go to sleep, my Girl, the Angel of Music watches you._ My grateful tears fell as the summer rain after weeks of drought. I don't know how he heard me. But, my Charles, I will swear to my dying day that Papa must have heard me singing. That night our Angel of Music heard me. I fell asleep to the sound of Maman coming back upstairs, her vigil over. Music had returned; Papa would follow it eventually.

The doors were still shut this morning. The house was still on uneven keel. Whenever the piano was played, we had some semblance of normality. The periods of silence in between were awful; Georges and Maman clearly worried and we children pretended again. After Gustave had disappeared upstairs, another quiet spell began. But this one was shorter than the rest.

Determined footsteps in the music room. The turn of the key; the door was pushed open. The footsteps continued across the foyer, down the corridor and to the threshold of the salon. Maman looked up from her work.

"Erik…"

"Christine. Darlings." His voice hoarse, but still his.

"Maddo, My Girl, will you enclose this letter in your letter to the rascal? Tell him to be careful. I do not trust that prince of his."

His hand caressed my shoulder as he reached down to give me the letter, but I knew he was looking at Maman. I could see it in her eyes; another secret passing between them.

As I was leaving the room he surprised me by speaking again "Maddo, my sweet one – don't be too harsh on him!! I think he meant well, actually I know he did – the Chagny boys always mean well…" The last was uttered with a tone I couldn't identify – regret? Remorse? Bemuse…No, I think he sounded amused. I turned around and looked at him; standing tall behind Maman's chair – hand in hers, serene, impeccably dressed, without the accursed mask for the first time in months. Papa had returned to us.

Normal sounds began to envelop the house after a day and a night with only a solitary piano. But dinner was still a subdued affair. Papa's hand didn't leave Maman's for a longer period of time. Whenever I had the chance I would sneak a look at him to make certain that he would not vanish. My expeditions were safe; Papa could barely bring himself to look at us. After one such peek, I caught Auguste's eyes. She had done the same. We smiled. Our smile wasn't lost on our parents. Suddenly we were all eyeing each other at the table and smiling. We knew we had survived this time, but couldn't speak it yet. Survival is fragile, indeed. But every second takes us further away from the abyss.

"Auguste, could you pass me the peas." The right eyebrow rose, signifying irritation.

"Erik, stop being so… childish. Peas are very healthy." Her hand left his.

"They may be, but I detest them all the same. I really didn't spend 18 hours in the music room to be served peas upon my return. Or perhaps I did – a punishment for putting you all through misery is certainly in order. I do wish you could have chosen a different way to signify your displeasure. But, so be it."

Papa heaved a dramatic sigh and raised his pea-laden fork. Rose looked away; clearly afraid of bursting into laughter. Gustave's eyes started dancing. Maman's lips began twitching. Laughter at first seemed foreign; then it was recognised and grew in strength.

"Erik, for God's sake, spit them out – you haven't eaten them at all!"

Four pairs of eyes opened in delighted horror. Is it possible to talk to Papa like that? Laughter again as Papa swallowed the peas and Maman's hand returned to clasp his. She shook her head, curls dancing around her head. Papa smiled at us all, mostly at her.

I'm certain they could have left the dinner table there and then. Then we wouldn't have seen them for the rest of the night. It is rather tiresome being children of parents, who are still in love – they're 70 and 49, they're much too old for that. They're bordering on being embarrassing if you ask me (which you're not, I know!)?For the sake of not scandalising their children, they stayed.

After dinner, Papa read your letter aloud to us all. Gustave and Maman thought it so very you and very beautiful. Papa did not express his feelings, but I did see his eyes mist once. You do know that He loves you in spite of everything. He only wants the best for you; he is more worried about Father pressing you into doing something you do not wish to do. He even talked a little of his childhood, surprising us all by some of the details. Despite the unhappiness in his voice, I think he was holding most of his story back. You know Papa doesn't want us to dwell on unhappiness. He always says that we have seen too much of it as it is. I think he will tell you what he told us in his letter to you.

Be careful in Vienna, Charles. Better still, come home soon… I miss you, little brother…

Much love,

Your sister, Louisa Madeleine

PS – Gustave sends his love; he's just returned from the exams at university. Auguste says she will write later. She very secretive at the moment; Papa says she's in love… Rose has already finished her own letter, which will be included in mine and Papa's.


	3. The Child was Unwanted

Disclaimer: I don't own the Phantom of the Opera.

Author's note: This is an updated version of Chapter 3. The PS at the end was missing in the former version. Rose

Chateau de Malmaison, December 11th 1904

Charles,

What have you done, my little Chagny? It seems that you are going to be even more trouble to me than the present Comte de Chagny. Now how did the quiet, proud boy with my Christine's eyes grow to be even more spoiled than his father ever was? Playing with other people's lives is no easy task, it takes more skill and cunning than the House of Chagny will ever know. But playing with my life is even more fearful still for a green vicomte, your darling Maman must have told you that the Opera Ghost is n…

No

I will not be reduced to this again…Ever again; do you hear me, boy? The pain is... I barely know if I'm talking to you or your accursed father…Have I become so accustomed to happiness, so familiar with being a mere man that I have forgotten what darkness of the mind that comes with being the Outcast, the Devil's Child

My Charles, what have you done? Your letter awoke more pain inside me than I hope you will ever know. But the fangs are gone from this gargoyle; I cannot, I will not bring even more hurt to my loved-ones (which includes you, you insolent Boy) than I already have. And that is plenty. I cannot write a note to a young boy I have nursed through fever and seen off to university anymore than I can kill a man your mother loves. I cannot threaten you, even when your actions threaten to shake my very existence, perhaps even destroy it. Because, like your accursed father before you, that is what you might well do, my boy. Those are the stakes.

There are many reasons why I have kept your knowledge of my past exceedingly small, even to this day. After the trial I even forced the Vicomte, your…your father to help me hide my past. You see, Charles, I have lost before and I do not think I can bear it again. But I will try to bear it, if I must. So I will answer your questions…All you ask of me; these bitter sweet words you will not understand, but allow a Phantom his humour…I expect to explain them in due course. Perhaps it is time for explanation; I feel the race has almost run its full course. And I'm done running, monsieur le Vicomte, I'm done hiding from my past. There will be no disasters befalling you, Charles – your Angel of Music still protects you.

I know well that you and Maddo have always decided that I must have had a special birth. Besides from the weather, there was nothing extraordinary about the birth itself. It took nine hours and my mother carried me nearly full term. I believe that I was born one week before, but you will have to take my word for it. My birth certificate will not tell you such things. However, it will tell you that your scheming violinist is partially right.

I was not born at Schönbrunn, but I was born in Vienna

My loyal boy; you are defending me even when I have deceived you. History repeats itself; your Mother also defended me. Of necessity I have become a Master of Deceit. I have created whole worlds, spun stories to survive. It has served me well. There have been two occasions in my life, when I have wished for the deceit to become reality. Two occasions; when I have seen what my lies cost the people I love. This is the second.

I ramble, Charles, I know. I still hide from the truth. But when you have spent a lifetime running, fearing to be caught, fearing to lose all, you will use every means to survive. I have just gained a few more second as your Papa-Erik. So the rambling has served it purpose. I fear, Charles, I fear. I promised you the truth, so you will have it. You have trusted me all your life, but that was the natural and easy trust given to a parent. Now I will have to earn that trust.

I was born in Vienna

The exact date was August 15th 1832. Yes, I have changed even the date of birth. We have always celebrated my birthday in December, but there was a reason for that. A good reason, but not a reason suitable for the ears of children. Besides, I have always hated August. Augusts in Vienna are usually very warm, but this was the warmest in living memory. Sicknesses flourished; the normal smells of many people living together became a rank stench, causing the 'rich' to cover their faces with scented scarves when out in their gardens. The nobility had fled the capital in early June, but then they always did.

Madeleine Epping, was not rich, nor noble, but her family was reckoned to be a good one. The Eppings had provided the Viennese nobles with some of the best valets and ladies' maids for generations. Thus, Mademoiselle Epping, who was an excellent maid, should have been with her mistress at some Chateau; braiding her hair for the night, dressing her for lunches and balls at a neighbour's summer palace. However, she was at home; in disgrace. She had caught a disease which often flourished in her work; a pregnancy. From what I was told this had never happened in the family before. But a cousin of her lady had taken a liking to the Mademoiselle. To make this delicate matter worse, this cousin was the black sheep of the family. He was also dead, having succumbed to consumption in July. Therefore, the mother's condition was delicate – in all aspects. The father's family had fervently hoped that he would be the last of his line. In practical terms; they would not provide for the child nor re-hire the mother once the child had been given away. They would make her give the child away; she would under no circumstances be entitled to keep it.

The child was unwanted. The mother, her family and the father's family hoped for one of the summer sicknesses would claim it. However the wish was not granted them. Mademoiselle went into labour on the day before the eventual birth. For many reasons it was hoped that the child would be born on the 14th or that the birth, being the mother's first would protract to the 16th. The 15th carried too many memories for all people involved. But even there it would prove a hideous disappointment. The child was born a little past 1 in the morning of August 15th. As I said before, the birth itself was uneventful, the mother had few pains. Mademoiselle was a good breeder, though I do not know if she had other children. It was her first. However, I doubt she would have been inclined to have more children. You see, if the birth was normal, the child was not.

Charles, my face was deformed from birth. I was not burned in the Opera House fire; I was nowhere near the flames. No, my boy, I have always looked like this. If I walk to the fireplace, place my mask on the mantle and look into the mirror, 'this' means: The right side of my face, from the upper jaw to the hairline, is destroyed. I have been informed that the proper word is deformed. Deformed or destroyed, what matters it? I am ugly. The skin is red and thin in some place, almost yellow in others. You can see veins running beneath it. Above my right ear there are ridges; the gypsies said they were caused by the devil running his claw through my skull. The devil must also have taken my right nostril – for I have none. Neither do I have any growth of hair on the right side of my head apart from a scraps – I am cursed and cannot conceal it by nature. Thus most of my life has been spent creating measures of concealment. And they have been good.Most of this world has believed in them. Even I have believed in them, from time to time.

But be honest, my sweet boy – have you not suspected for some time now that the entire damage to my face could not have been caused by the fire? You were always so curious; as a child your favourite horror story was the story of the fire. When the Vicomte invited you to Vienna I thought it only a matter of time, before the cracks in my lies would begin to appear. So, when I caught you staring at the right side of my face several times before you left. You looked pained, which I can well sympathise with. My face is not pleasant to look at for longer periods of time; even for people I care about and love. Even for people, who love me as much as you do. I know it and I was sorry to cause you so much pain. Therefore I took to wear the mask at home (which you know I have not done for years) despite Christine's intense disapproval, but I simply could not bear your pained looks whenever you saw me. You even ran from me your last day at home; in those final days you had become skittish like an abused horse. I pretended not to notice that you had made a habit of exiting any room I entered, but I saw it. I noticed, Charles, and I do not blame you. I do not care to look at myself, either, so how could I fault you for feeling the same?

If you care to hear more of the story, I will tell you what I know. It surprises me that so much of that apartment is still carved upon my soul. I need only close my eyes and I can feel the slightly uneven floorboards under my feet, I can smell the new paint on the walls and feel the rough wool of my bed blanket under my fingers, I can hear vendors selling their vegetables, meat in the nearby market. There are other memories, too, which I feel you will pry from me eventually – but let me keep them a little longer, while you determine whether you can live what I have just disclosed.

Naturally what I know of my birth are not my own memories, but what I have conjectured based on what Mademoiselle Epping told me and what I later overheard her employer tell her husband:

When the child was pulled out from the unconscious mother, it was discovered that the child was born with a distorted face. The maid, who had assisted in the later stages of the birth, screamed and ran from the room, dropping the child on the bed. Monsieur Epping cursed annoyed under his breath. Facial deformities ran in his side of the family, an uncle of his was last to have been afflicted, so he was not unaccustomed. Madame crossed herself, eyeing the child with dislike and fear as it lay screaming on the bed; she refused to even touch it. Irritated, Monsieur scowled at her, removed the child from her sight and sent for a priest. He placed the child on the dinner table and left the room to calm his wife. As far as he could see, the curse might yet turn into a blessing; he remembered the many infections which had plagued his uncle. Maybe there still was a chance of the child dying. This Monsieur pointed out in reasonable tones to his distraught wife and daughter, who had finally awoken. Mademoiselle did not ask for her newborn son, which her father found sensible, indeed commendable.

This was how the sent-for priest found the Eppings; Monsieur informing Madame and Mademoiselle of the child's expected demise. He observed that Madame looked relieved at hearing this, while Mademoiselle had turned in bed, facing away from her parents. "I do not wish to hear anymore, father, please… do not ever let me see him. Do not ever let me see his face…" The last came out as a wail, the maid hurried to the side of Mademoiselle as the priest gently cleared his throat to make his presence known. Monsieur and Madame looked startled; indeed he looked dismayed, but whether this was caused by his disgraced daughter's unreasonable behaviour or the arrival of the priest was uncertain. Being perfectly respectable members of the society they lived in, they soon recovered their pose and greeted the priest as if he was merely making a courtesy call and not there to christen their deformed, illegitimate grandson on the strict orders from the father's family. The luxury of a discreet priest was a relief as the child, being illegitimate, could never have been baptised in the parish church; the family could never have admitted to such a shame. So, rather than taking offence to the disapproving stares, Monsieur Epping was predisposed to like this fellow, even if he would undoubtedly return straight to the palace and report to them. No matter, they would not wish to share it with anyone, besides this might well be over soon.

"Good Evening, Father. It's most kind of you to visit us so late. Believe me; I am sorry for this inconvenience. Would you like something to cool you before performing the ceremony?"

"No thank you, Monsieur Epping, and I assure you it is no inconvenience. Indeed it is an honour to serve Her Highness and her late cousin. If you could show me the infant, please."

Monsieur looked as if slapped by the younger man. Madame started wringing her hands nervously, fortunately this allowed Monsieur the opportunity to turn his rising anger towards her. He took her left hand. Madame winced.

"Of course, Father. It is right in here, perhaps I should warn you…"

A piteous wail drowned the rest of Monsieur's words, the sound increased in strength as the door to the dark parlour was opened. The priest stood motionless on the threshold. One window was open, allowing the cooler night breeze into the apartment. On the table lay the infant, crying. Naked. The priest rushed to close the window as Madame was pulled into the room by her irate husband. The priest turned around and looked at the child. An indrawn breath, an involuntary step backwards. Monsieur felt a perverse joy at seeing the Priest turn away from the screaming child.

"Yes, as I was saying, Father, regrettably he is born with a deformity which runs in my family."

"I cannot baptise it. It is a hideous sight."

Monsieur made his baritone voice warm and gentle, belying the force behind it. He picked up his grandson and quieted him a little.

"Yes you can, Father. My dear, hand me that napkin and tell Elsa to bring the bowl."

Madame handed him the cloth and left. Monsieur Epping delicately placed the napkin over the child's face, leaving the top of the scull uncovered.

"There now, Father, the hideousness is hidden from sight."

Madame and the maid returned. A porcelain bowl was placed on the table in front of the shaken priest. The broken Latin from his light voice mingled with the sobs from the maid. The Priest let his hand sprinkle water three times over the uncovered area. After a few minutes, the child had been named 'Erich' after the great-uncle, who had had the same facial affliction. Witnesses and sponsors were the furious Grandfather and the reluctant Grandmother. The Priest left the apartment immediately after the ceremony. No one saw him out. The last he heard was the Grandfather ordering that his daughter be woken up.

"Elsa, take another cloth and sew them together. Remember to cut two holes for the eyes. That way Mademoiselle will not see the face of her child. When you've done, wake my daughter. Tell her to feed Erich!"

Then the door was shut behind the Priest.

This was my first night in this world, Charles. My first mask. Do you now understand, my boy, why I have no wish to return to Vienna? A cold Monsieur, a disgusted Madame, a deeply unhappy Mademoiselle and a fearful maid. And that was merely the beginning. That was the beginning of a life filled with pain, painful memories I had thought buried and forgotten. Now they crowd my soul. But I'm not running away from the darkness. Let it come. I am not alone anymore…

What have you done, Charles? My boy, what have Prince Richárd let you into? For the first time in my life; I do not know and I am so tired…

But I remain, as always, your ever-loving

Papa

PS, in case your scheming prince does not believe my words (I hope you do, my boy), the address of the house in which the birth took place is written on the back of this paper.


	4. I KNow The Truth About Your Face

Disclaimer: I don't own the Phantom of the Opera.

Author's note: I hope you haven't given up on me, but unfortunately real life interfered with my writing. As Charles would say "Please forgive me". I promise to update chapter 5 a lot sooner.

I dedicate this chapter to my reviewers, especially LittleBelle, whose review warmed my heart. Thank you all, xx Rose

Well then - after nearly 6 months - here it is: Charles's Reply to Erik's revelations:

Hotel Sacher, Vienna – December 17th 1904

My dear Papa,

It has been only two days since I received the letters from Maddo, Rose and you. Only two days. It feels as much more. No, actually it doesn't – but it should. I feel suddenly and strangely confused by the steady movement of time. No matter how wretchedly unhappy, guilty and fearful I feel, there's still 60 minutes in an hour and the hours move at the same relentless pace. Somehow that adds to my pain; the state of my mind can be summed up in two words: absolute turmoil – and yet life around me continues as always. I even awoke to a bright winter sun yesterday morning (one feels it should have been an overcast, dark sky), which tells you that I was able to sleep – in spite of everything. How unromantic, how mundane of me. That thought made me smile bitterly – I am a romantic even now. I remember that Rose told me once (in one of her fits of attempting to sound adult) that I live my life as if I were a character in a romantic novel. Her exact words were "I think you see yourself as a mixture of Heathcliff, Count Vronsky and Marius Pontmercy, Charles. I can just imagine you standing on the roof of the Opéra, yelling at the gods because one of the chorus girls doesn't love you. Everything to you is Tragic or Momentous or Wonderful – you're worse than me and I'm a young, innocent girl..."

At the time, I was furious and offended. (Should that be Furious and Offended?) But I know now, she was right. I am romantic and as innocent as my 14-year-old sister.

Be that as it may, my world is constantly changing. It is as if I'm peering into a kaleidoscope and seeing familiar features become distorted shapes. Out of my beloved Papa's features is formed a heartbreaking story of such pain as I've never heard about before, a story concealed beneath a mask of such pain and anger I never even thought possible. But your story was always there, right beneath the surface of the smooth white leather; it's all the more frightening for it. It was there and we never knew. You carried such pain and we never knew. Worst of all, however, is that I alone provoked the turning of the kaleidoscope. I could have reacted otherwise, more prudently, more cautiously to Richárd's stories than cockily writing to Maddo, showing off. What I wouldn't give to be able to un-write that letter. I do hope, Papa, that you know that I never meant to cause you, Maman or Maddo such harm. And to make matters even worse, from your letter I understand that I have caused you even more unhappiness. Again, Papa, nothing could be further from my mind. In the egotistic corner of my soul I am saddened that you could think it possible of me. There is only one consolation for me – the accusation that I should have fled from your face is one which I can clear myself of, at least partly. I didn't run from your face. I ran from you.

It looks horrible on the page, so angry, so hateful. It isn't. Anything but, really. It had nothing to do with your face. Nothing. You spoke of lies and deceit. Well, even I can be deceitful. Does that shock you? I'm afraid this will shock you further.

I know the truth about your face, Papa. I've known for a long time, in fact longer than you obviously imagine. I sensed that you were not telling the truth already as a child. Whenever you told the story about the fire, you always looked strange, never quite meeting my eyes and at a certain point you would move away from the chair by my bed and stand by the window, finishing the story with your back to me. I suppose your behaviour is why the story fascinated me; the faint tingle of fear it gave me. Fear was an unfamiliar feeling, I only knew it from your story and when crossing Monsieur Champéry's field – the one with the big bull. Otherwise, growing up as son of Comte and Comtesse Tascher, my life was filled with love, music and laughter. Therefore it was natural to me to approach you for an explanation – I never had anything to fear from you. Not even then; you quietly told me that the fire was the cause of the "damage to your face". I remember it clearly, for I thought that "damage" was a strange word to use about your face, so harsh. I made a solemn decision that night in my bed, after having said my Prayers_ (Bless Maman and Papa, Maddo, Stava and Mélie – and please make me a great musician. Thank you.); _never to ask for that story again.

I didn't think much about it after my nightly resolve because – honestly Papa – however you got that face wasn't all that interesting to me when I was 8. You were still my Papa and nothing could ever change that. At least, that was what I thought the first 9 years of my life. The day, a year after the Last Story, Maman and you told me that I was the son of Raoul de Chagny was the worst day of my young life. Well, perhaps only surpassed by the first night I spent in Father's house – in a dark, quiet guest room, all alone. But that was the first time my existence was shaken to the core and I longed to return to normality. At that time my highest wish was to belong irrefutably to you and Maman, get away from Father. I thought it awful that I could not possibly get to look like you. I had gathered from Father's conversation with the Dowager Comtesse that I could well have been your child after all. I stood in front of the mirror, desperately trying to detect any likeness with you, but I knew it was in vain. Scars cannot be passed on from parents to children. I would have given everything to have but one nostril or a little red skin. I would give everything to look more like you, be more like you. You were perfect to me, my real father.

A few months later, Rose was born. I remember hearing Maman screaming bloody murder at you and that Grandmaman's only reaction was a hearty laughter, I remember the rejoicing and the bonfires to celebrate our new baby sister. But I also remember that you looked very red in the face, when you came to tell us children about the birth (I later learned from Maddo that you had fainted!). Worried, I asked our doctor to get you some ointment for your skin. He looked strangely at me.

"But, Master Charles, an ointment for burn victims will not help your father. He was born with those deformities of his."

That day I learned that you had lied to me, but rather that being angry my hope soared again. There was a chance now for me to get to look like you. I even tried to tell you, Papa, that day in the park shortly after Rose's christening. Do you remember? I could never blame you for concealing the truth – I always thought you had your reasons for it.

And what reasons you have...

So now you know what I know about your face – and how little it matters to me. And yet I ran from you. I couldn't bear to be in the same room as you – though not because of you, but because of me. I felt like an enormous disappointment to you. After everything you had given me – comfort, affection, love; still I chose to accept Father's invitation and spite you. I felt like a traitor – and yet I could not deny that I so wanted to go to Vienna. But whenever I was with you, you treated me with your usual kindness and confidence. I couldn't bear it; I didn't deserve it. Eventually being in your company became unbearable; I thought if I could only escape it... I ran from you. I spent days trying to convince myself that your kindness was your way of punishing me – I was searching vainly to find a way to blame you, not me – but I couldn't. I knew I only had myself to blame. And I disliked you a little for that. Please forgive me, Papa.

I showed Richárd your letter, as you doubtlessly had intended. He had come to the hotel to take me out to lunch as is his wont. We have been spending a lot of time in each others' company. He is a strange blend of kindness and icy contempt. Sometimes, I am not certain that he likes me at all, but then he completely changes demeanour and becomes the best possible friend. Of course, it has been wonderful to escape Father's boring plans. Thanks to Richárd and his family connections, I have seen some of the most beautiful palaces in Vienna and attended 5 different operas (though one of the performances was marred, when I discovered that Richárd had left in the intermission without taking leave first). Noticing yesterday that I looked miserable, Richárd decided to cheer me in the only way he knew how – with music: He took me to attend a rehearsal at the Wiener Musikverein. Even in my exhausted state, I marvelled at the beauty of the different concert halls and was astounded by the incredible acoustics of the Goldener Saal. It was a true Temple of Music.

However, I knew this meeting would be less pleasant. He would be furious to be proven wrong in his accusations. I have learned that Richárd does not care for knowing less than others – he can become decidedly malicious and vengeful when bested, so I wondered how I to tell him. It would have to be done delicately – especially as I wanted to revel a little in his mistakes.

"So, you see, Richárd, from my Papa's own writing – his own admission – that you were only partially right. Papa was after all born in Vienna, but not at the palace!"

Admit defeat, my dear friend, I thought. Richárd looked at me with a slight smirk on his lips and a sardonic twinkle in his eyes.

Here it comes, I thought, now he strikes. And he did.

"'Papa', eh? Seriously, Charles, you have no idea how childish you sound! Besides, isn't Comte Tascher only your Stepfather? Shouldn't you rather refer to him as 'my Stepfather' or 'the Comte'?"

It hurt more than I expected. I turned away abruptly, but Richárd droned on in his deep voice.

"So, where shall we go today, Charles – ah! I see the Comte has provided us with an address. Well, that's not far away. What say you, my little pilgrim, do you want to go to the shrine of your deformed saintly Stepfather?"

I refused to take the bait and turned to face him, though I did not trust my voice enough to actually speak. I nodded. Richárd gave me the letter and rose from his chair. Just outside the Hotel we met Father. My companion greeted him heartily, while I tried to behave like the perfect son without making it obvious that I wanted Father to leave as soon as possible.

"Perhaps Monsieur le Vicomte would like to join us for a short stroll about town?"

A slight twitch of Richárd's lips, the one I have come to know as his smile. But what his lips can't or won't do, his eyes can – amply. Father looked into the bewitchingly smiling eyes for a few seconds and immediately accepted.

"I'd be delighted, Prince Richárd! This is extraordinarily kind of you, both of you. Charles has been slightly out of spirits for the past few days. Bad news from his sister, I gather."

"Yes, Monsieur, I have noticed it, too. I hope, Charles, that this little excursion will cheer you up, especially since your Papa has graciously decided to accompany us."

The mask of the perfect son slipped a little. I shall never know how Richárd's badly veiled irony managed to escape Father's notice, but somehow it did. He merely smiled his usual gentle smile at me (how I have come to hate that smile!), forcing me to mask my unhappiness and to try to control my urge to beat Richárd's princely nose to a bloody pulp, which at that moment was extremely tempting! I knew he had done this on purpose, my punishment for proving him wrong. But I also knew that had I struck Richárd, I would face the horror of horrors; Father being quietly horrified. He would have spent the rest of the evening sternly reproving me and reminding me of my responsibility as a nobleman. Papa, I can only take so much of the Chagny code of honour, so with that prospect in mind, I managed to refrain from throttling Richárd. I suppose you would say that even Father's facade has its silver lining.

After five minutes of walking highly 'out of spirits' behind Richárd and Father I decided to catch up with them. When I caught Richárd's eyes, he winked at me as if he knew exactly what I had been thinking. I tried to ignore him, tried to think of other things. But the alternative to being angry at Richárd and Father was dwelling on the horrible circumstances of your birth, the disgusting Monsieur and Madame Epping, to say nothing of the woman who gave birth to you. A mother, she was not. I think you will wonder that I have not written of it before, but Papa, I do not know how to express those feelings I have for those people. I have never wanted to become a murderer before, but those... they tempt me. But it is futile to hate them so. I cannot remove the pain they caused you and that is the only thing I want to do.

There it was, the house, where you were born 71 – no, 72 – years ago. It was not what I had expected. I don't know what I had expected, but not this. It was just a normal building – white painted, red tile roof and several big windows bringing plenty of light into what from the street seemed like well-spaced rooms. Just a normal house in a decent, but not fashionable part of town – there was nothing spectacular, nothing sinister about this house. At first, I couldn't picture you here – or the awful people (much too nice for them). I crossed the street and tentatively touched the wall. I looked up, trying to figure out where the nursery would have been. I looked up at the dark blue sky of a cold winter afternoon, the first stars twinkling so far away. I wondered if you had once had the same view of the sky and decided that you had; suddenly I could feel you here. It made me take a deep breath and let my shoulders sink to their usual level. I exhaled peacefully.

"What are you looking at, Charles?" (Trust Father to interrupt my thoughts.)

"Probably nothing important, Monsieur le Vicomte, but I believe the young Comte Gustave Tascher has asked Charles to study bourgeois Viennese architecture. We'll leave you to it, Charles..."

I didn't understand the sudden kindness from Richárd. As I turned my eyes from the house and looked at him, I saw him look slightly confused as well. He padded my arm uncomfortably and looked away. He knew.

"Well, can't you study architecture for your...for Gustave later, my son? It's too dark to see anything properly."

I had to, Papa. I'm sorry but I had to tell him.

"Papa was born in that building."

"Excuse me, Charles?"

"Comte Erik Tascher was born here, Father. I should like to visit the apartment, if possible."

"No. That will not be possible, Charles. We cannot simply barge in like this – and to strangers, into the bargain. No, I won't have it. Did HE put you up to this?"

"No, Monsieur. I did. I asked Charles to find out exactly where his Stepfather was born. I have long been an admirer of Comte Tascher."

And before Father could say another word, Richárd had opened the gate and begun to ascend the staircase to the second-floor apartment. Not daring to look at father, I followed, not caring if he followed but strangely glad when the footsteps behind me told me that he had.

A rather startled maid answered the door, when Richárd banged on it. He kindly apologised for the interruption and enquired after her employer. With the dinner napkin still hanging from his waistcoat, he appeared at the door a moment later. A quiet middle-aged man, red of hair and face with kind eyes; he immediately asked us inside when he heard that you were born in his apartment. Richárd never even got to introduce any of us properly much less say your name.

"Come inside, please. Agnes, would you take the gentlemen's coats? Of course the young man should see where his Father was born... Only natural to wish to know ones roots, I once visited my grandparents' farm in Saxony, very fascinating, indeed. And you must be the uncle?"

The last was said to Father, who looked too shocked to speak at such a suggestion. Richárd's eyes flashed a smile and any awkwardness vanished. The gentleman – Monsieur Friesch – noticed me trying to peer through the open living room door.

"Right this way, sir. Come inside."

Of course there was nothing to see. The interiors had (presumably) changed from the lightness of the classicistic style to the heavy, overly decorated design favoured by most today. What must have been your Mother's bedroom was now a dining room with yellow walls (though most of the wallpaper covered by boring paintings of landscapes and dead Austrian Emperors) and a massive mahogany dinner suite. It was dreadful. But, Papa, to be able to stand in the room where you were born, see those accursed dining room windows and think of your cold hearted grandfather and your suffering, but malicious mother...how terrible and poignant. Feeling faint, I sat down on one of the mahogany chairs while Monsieur Friesch – and his rotund, plain if nice wife – talked to Father and Richárd, until Richárd went to admire the view from the living room windows. (He even opened one, then closed it quickly again) In the 20 minutes we stayed there, I did not utter one word. I couldn't.

We were all silent as we walked home. Partly because the kind Friesch couple had talked incessantly – I believe we were the most interesting thing that had happened to them for years – but mostly because your spirit loomed large around us, inside us. Richárd seemed more out of spirits going back to the hotel than I had been going out. Father had lost his smile and composure as we descended the staircase, he walked very close to me – eyeing me nervously. And I...I couldn't make any sense of my thoughts or emotions. I felt sad, elated, miserable and relieved, all at once. I missed you all so much.

Richárd left us in front of the Hotel, quietly shaking Father's hand and then mine. What was going on inside that brilliant, sensitive, dark mind of his? His eyes looked tired and apprehensive.

"I'm sorry, Charles..."

Then he was gone, leaving Father and I to share a strained, silent meal together in his room. As I left for my room, he stopped me at the door.

"I won't pretend to understand what's going on, Charles, why you would deliberately put me through this without telling me anything... I won't pretend to like this hold HE has over you, but...Charles, if you're in trouble...unhappy...talk to me. Will you?"

I hope you won't mind Papa, but I promised him that I would. I think he knows that I never could, but it was kind of him to offer. It made me feel less alone.

So now I sit writing at the desk, pretending I'm not tired, pretending that I'm not frightened of your anger, pretending that I'm not crying for the little unwanted boy you once were. I don't understand it and that hurts most of all. How could a deformed face cause such pain? How could they not see you, your heart? Guide me, Papa, please... Explain it to me. I'm lost and afraid of the pain you have felt, of the life you may have lived – so differently from what I imagined...

Who are you, Papa? What happened to that child? How did that become you? Tell me...

Your loving son,

Charles

PS, I have just received your Wonderful telegram. I am so glad you like your birthday present (even though apparently it's 4 months late). It was so difficult to find anything, but I thought you might like the Rachmaninoff piano concertos. His music has always reminded me of yours.


	5. A Monster in a Linen Sack

Here it is: Chapter 5 - Erik writes about his early childhood. A word of caution - this chapter contains references to physical and emotional abuse (NOT of a sexual nature, though). Read with care. As Erik says to Charles, it is NOT a happy letter.

Thank you to my faithful reviewers; Little Belle, Daisy Watson and KnightCrusader. I am humbled by your kind words and so very grateful - I hope I'll live up to them.

xx Rose

* * *

Your Malmaison - still, December 23rd 1904 

My darling Child of Heaven

You will not be surprised by this letter. I told you to expect it when I cabled you yesterday upon receiving your beautiful, but haunting letter. I did not think that I could be amazed any more, but apparently I still can. And I should know better. I should know better than anyone that there is always more to a person than what shows on the surface... But that such a lesson should come from you - my sweet, sensitive child - is nevertheless a surprise. What pain you have carried inside you, Charles and unnecessarily so. If you had only talked to me, if you had – I could have convinced you that you had done no grievous wrong to me. You annoyed me by your decision to go, yes – I was annoyed as any parent would be when their children act against their wishes, but wronged or angry, I was not. I never could be with you children. I was never the strict parent, when I eventually came to be one.

Never ever doubt, my son, that the rainy day Georges opened the door at Evreux only to reveal your Maman was the best day in my life. Not only did it make me a husband, lover (stop cringing, boy!) and best friend – but, miracle of miracles, it made me – me! – a father of a glorious little girl and a precious baby boy. If Christine is my heart, you two are apples of my eyes. At first Mon Ange was more than a little worried, apparently some men do not like to have another man's children foisted upon them. Bah! I'm not most men. I knew you for what you were, what you are – blessings from Heaven itself. For how would I know if there were other deformities inside my body which would prevent me from ever producing offspring? Certainly, to that day I had not been in any position to know... if I could... That is to say no woman had...

Charles, I must warn you – this is far from the letter you deserve. You deserve a letter full of happiness and parental love and pride, exactly those emotions which are in me as I write this. But this letter will not be a happy one. Pandora's Box has been opened and I have to tell you what followed after that disastrous baptism. You wanted to know when that little baby became me. First, that unwanted child became an unwanted little boy. Oh yes, I remember my earliest childhood well. And do not think I shall ever forget. After so many years, all I have to do is close my eyes – and I am again the little, lonely boy in the attic.

You wondered where my nursery was. I did not have one. When I was born, Monsieur and Madame only had the first-floor apartment. They only had one servant, Elsa, who had been with them for years (even in the days when Mademoiselle had been plain, Austrian 'Magdalena') and into who's care I had been thrust as an infant. From what Elsa later told me, I gather that my first two years were spent primarily in the kitchen and her room – out of sight as much as possible. Elsa would always remind me what a burden I had been then to Monsieur and Madame; in those two years they never once had acquaintances calling but was forced to meet them in town – 'like common people'. Of course they could not ask their friends and the rest of the family to suffer me as they did. I was a terrible child much prone to 'storms' and this Monsieur did not like; he took it upon himself to correct my insolent behaviour.

However, after two years Monsieur suddenly came into money, which enabled him to buy the second floor apartment and the attic; I got my own room. I had a room in the attic, opposite Elsa. My room was facing the back of the house, while Elsa had views of the street. But from my window I could se the rooftops of Vienna, the spires of churches – even that of the Stephansdom. Through the frosty patterns of ice on my small window, I saw them covered by snow and icicles hanging from the tiles. In the stifling heat of summer, sometimes even with the window open – on the rare days Sir thought me more than a nuisance and allowed me such a treat. I saw the deep blue sky, even a few green treetops. I heard the rain drumming on my window.

I spent most of my days inside my room with Elsa as the only company. She would bring me my food and sometimes even sit with me while I ate. If I had been well-behaved, she would leave the door open so I could hear what was happening downstairs. I would sit as close to the threshold as possible and just listen, sometimes even outside my room in the attic corridor. I would hear Cook moving about in the kitchen, her even steps and the occasional 'clank' when she dropped a pan or a kettle. I could even smell the food – fricassees, strudels, stews and other delicacies. Those were the good days.

There are other memories. Dark memories. They are sounds – cries, a faint child's voice begging, the soft whimpers of Elsa, my door being locked from the outside, the silken and low voice. They are glimpses – Monsieur's face contorted with rage, Monsieur raising his hand, Madame turning away and leaving me without a light – terrified of Monsieur's anger, Madame looking at me with disgust and sending me from the room.

I remember the strap.

I remember the broken glass on the floor.

I remember his fists, the dull ache of bruised muscles and the sharp pain of bones giving way.

I remember not being able to see very well because of the sack which was always covering my head.

I remember the beatings I took for soiling the linen when eating, for singing with the window open, for taking too long getting up the stairs when visitors where coming, for staring at Madame's new dress, for waking up screaming after another nightmare.

Worst of all; I remember Mademoiselle. The wavy, golden-brownish hair framing her face, the large green eyes – unfathomable and distant, the pale brown dress she favoured the most, the scent of lavender she used, her voice...

Her voice.

I remember her.

When did I realise that this beautiful, ethereal person was my mother? I think I have always known – from the way Elsa would ask, beg her, to see me, from the way she ignored me and yet always seemed to know exactly where I was and what I was doing. The good days also earned the distinction 'good' simply because I got a glimpse of her. I would sit at the top of the staircase, watching her pass by, going from the kitchen to the living room, going out. She knew I was there, though she never looked at me; she walked slightly slower when passing the staircase after which the sound of her footsteps suggested that she almost ran to the comfort of her room. She never came to my room in the attic. I never expected her to; I was content to watch her from afar or just listen to the sound of her voice. Not that she mentioned me by name or otherwise. I did not mind; hers was the most beautiful voice I had ever heard. At home it was soft, gentle and melodic – though quite high-pitched and shaky when talking to Monsieur. When she descended the staircase to join her suitor for a night at the theatre, it took on a deeper, richer tone – passionate – seductive.

I had even heard her sing once through the door to her room. She had been dressing to go out that night. Unable to resist the sound, I had descended the staircase and moved closer to the door not caring that I would likely be noticed. She looked so pretty as she put a flower in her hair. She looked like an angel, all in white. I was so busy staring at her that I did not notice that she had stopped singing. She had noticed me in the mirror and turned in her chair.

"What are you doing up at this hour?"

Her voice was still melodic, she was not angry. Maybe I would not get punished. I blurted out the truth.

"I heard beautiful music. I followed it. You sang."

She rose from her chair, tears in her lovely eyes. I moved away, but she motioned me to come in. She asked me to come inside. I did. I was allowed to sit on the floor while she finished dressing. Though she did not sing again, she hummed a little. I swayed in time to her humming. She smiled at the mirror. Without looking at me

"You like music?"

"Yes, I can hear all the bells in my room. Sometimes I can even hear people singing in the streets, but they do not sing lovely like you do. They sing ugly."

"Do they now?" She sounded amused. She rose, finished and satisfied with her appearance. Realising that I was still staring at her, her movements became abrupt. She shooed me away, like a stray dog.

"Well, back to bed."

She walked me to the door and peered out to see if I could go back unseen. If she had asked me I could have told her. Monsieur and Madame were still out. I had not heard the tell-tale heavy footsteps on the staircase yet. As I moved past her, her hand neared my face. I flinched. The hand stopped in mid-movement. I looked up and wanted to apologise, but she shook her head and let her hand hover over my head until the fingertips landed on the coarse linen. Would she caress me? The hand was retracted.

"You have your father's eyes. Beautiful grey eyes, so expressive. You're a good boy."

She left me in the dark.

That nightly incident did change my routines. Whenever Monsieur and Madame left I would be escorted by Elsa to see Madeleine (as I was allowed to call her on those occasions). In her room, under her bed, I had a few books and some pieces of paper. I was allowed to play with those things as long as I did not stare at her too much. If I did, she very quickly would have Elsa take me back upstairs. Thus, I soon learned to play soundlessly and how to observe her unnoticed. If I was very well behaved and Elsa could report that I had been so all week, I would be rewarded by sitting in the windowsill looking out on the street. That was my favourite thing to do. The curtain was arranged so that I could not be seen, so I could peacefully observe the passing vendors on their way to the market (is that still there, I wonder), couples walking arm in arm, children playing hide and seek. I would drink the details in, preserve them so that I might remember them at night, alone in my room. I knew that I could never play in the street – to dangerous for me, Madeleine said, because I was not like other children. The children in the street did not wear linen sacks over their heads. Only me.

Beneath the dark memories of her is the darkest memory. The complete eclipse - my last day in that apartment, which occasionally still haunts me in dreams. It starts with the feeling of the rough linen on my skin. The unbearable heat and the overwhelming feeling of being trapped inside my mask. Then I usually wake up, sweating, Christine cradling me back to sleep. The sack still haunts me. I suppose it always will.

After 65 years I can still remember how the sack felt, what it smelled like – rank and stale. I remember the linen irritating my skin, especially at night. It was unbearable. I could not make it stop. I remember the agony knowing that I was under no circumstances allowed to touch my face or to remove the sack. But I did it. Charles, I did it anyway. One night, as I lay on the pallet, I gently lifted the linen. I felt the night air on my skin; for a second it soothed me and I felt calm. Then the itching began, it felt worse than ever before – perhaps because its cure was so close at hand. I needed only lift my hand and let my fingers scratch. I did it, rejoicing at the feel of my skin under my nails. I scratched myself to sleep, feeling victorious.

If I won a small victory that night, it was a pyrrhic victory. There was a price to be paid the following morning, when Elsa had to report that "the monster" had slept without the sack. Immediately, I was summoned downstairs. I pressed myself against the dining room door, not looking up. I didn't need to; I felt Madame's disgusted glance, Elsa's unhappy look and mademoiselle's green eyes filled with pain, looking away. I did not need to look up; this had happened so many times before. I had the marks to prove it. I still have them.

"Come here, Erik."

I knew better than to disobey that silken voice. That voice was his "lying voice". It was so soft, so gentle. But I had learned that "the lying voice" was always followed by the most violent beatings. To disobey it would only make it even worse. I edged my way round the dinner table as slowly as possible. I was surprised that I was allowed to move in my own pace... Normally I would have been struck many, many times. My fear grew by every step. What was he going to do to me?

He smiled a smile that only made me cower more behind one of the chairs. I felt something wet trickle down my trousers. "Oh, I see that we have had yet another 'little accident'. You are the most ungrateful creature, Erik. We have kept you out of Christian kindness, despite your bad blood, and yet you persist in this disgusting behaviour. I insist that you apologize to myself, Mademoiselle Madeleine, Madame Epping and Elsa."

"I'm sorry. I am. I promise."

"You must be punished for the accident as well as your heinous transgression."

"Please Monsieur, please no!"

"Come here, Erik. Now."

When I made no move, he simply moved round the table and lifted me up, his fingers digging painfully into my armpits. He carried me into the sitting room and placed me in front of the mirror. Keeping his left hand forcefully on my shoulder, his right hand was fingering the edge of the linen.

"I had hoped that it should never come to this, but you are forcing my hand. I have no choice. Do you understand?"

A painful squeeze.

"Yes, Monsieur."

"Have you never wondered why we have made you wear this sack? To protect you, Erik. But it is impossible. You must now see how inhuman and beastly you are!"

He removed the sack and made me stand face to face with the most horrifying thing I had ever seen. In the mirror I could see something that was supposed to look like a little boy – and did in the thin, scrawny body. But the head... the head was not that of a normal boy. It was the face of a monster. The right side of the head was the worst – the eye watery and drooping, the nostril... not there – just a hole with a glimpse of bone, the hair only sparse and in spots, the right side of the skull oddly shaped – deep ridges behind the ear. All over the head – even the "good" left side – the skin was almost destroyed, there were cakes of dried blood everywhere. There were marks from nails. It was disgusting. It was the face of a monster.

I tried to not look at it, to look at other things... Monsieur's coat, Monsieur's hand on my shoulder. My shoulder? That was when it dawned on me; I was looking at myself. The monster was me. I started crying. The monster cried ugly in the mirror. Someone started screaming. Being forced by Monsieur to look, I realised it was me. Monsieur leaned down and spoke in my ear.

"Crying will not change it, Erik. You are monstrous. Out of kindness we have concealed the truth from you. But no longer. Behold; the devil's grandchild!"

"NO!"

"From this day on you will be brought before the mirror every time you misbehave. Do you understand?"

"Husband, that is enough." I was turned away. I looked at Elsa, Madame and Mademoiselle. Madame, who had spoken, even moved to take my hand and lead me to Elsa. Neither of them looked at me. Nor did Mademoiselle. She looked out the window. Elsa moved me out of the room, but in order to do so she had to pass the mirror. I screamed. And screamed. Elsa moved faster, lifting me into her arms. Outside Elsa put the sack over my head again. She carried me, stilling screaming, up the stairs. Carefully, as if I was something to be protected, she shifted me in her arms so that she might open the door to her room. Immediately, I quietened; this had never happened before. Gently, she sat me on her bed.

"Erik, I have to wipe your eyes – I have some soft cloth here. Can you bear it if I remove the sack? Your skin has to be dry before I can put on the ointment."

I nodded and felt the air on my skin again. As she wiped away my tears I bit back fresh ones when she touched my sore lower eyelid. I could taste blood in my mouth.

"You've been so brave, Erik. Sit still while I go downstairs to get the ointment."

Of course I did not sit still - for I knew who had the ointment; Madeleine. And I desperately wanted to hear her voice, needed to hear her voice. Standing at the top of the staircase, I saw them huddle conspiratorially together on the landing. I could not hear Elsa – and even Madeleine sounded weak. When her voice became audible it had the eerie metallic sound of a knife being sharpened, defensive.

"He cannot stay here anymore, Elsa. I believe Father will succeed in killing him or drive him mad. Erik has been worse the past six months. I will be so happy to leave this house...only six weeks more until the wedding. I suspect that is why Father is growing harder on him; I won't take him with me. I can't. How am I to explain Erik to Anton? I can't; he thinks Erik is dead. If I tell the truth Anton will leave me... and then I will be forced to stay here. I'll never be free of him."

"Magdalena... you are talking about your own son..."

"Don't you dare judge me, Elsa. I did not see you defend him to Father right now. Do you think it's easy? Do you think I don't want to love my son? Of course I do. But... Elsa, I can't. When I look at him... So, I'm resolved. Though I don't love him, I will not see him hurt. He is a nice boy. I must save him. Elsa, when you have put Erik to bed, take this letter to the Priest. They will surely come for Erik and then we will both be free of each other."

"Magdalena..."

"See to Erik... he needs his ointment. How could he scratch himself to blood?"

I shrank back to my room. It was too much. When Elsa gently rubbed the ointment in, I was quiet. I had no words. She left without saying a word. I remained sitting on the small bed, hugging my knees – rocking back and forth. Trying to forget that I was a monster.Trying to forget that my Mother only dreamed of being free of me. I did not succeed. The hours passed. Though my door was closed, as always, I could hear the house going to bed. I sat crying, my skin started hurting again. If only I were a good boy... A beautiful boy, then Mother would caress me like other Mothers, and then she would not leave. But I was a monster who would have to witness his ugliness every day. The mirror... the awful mirror...I would NOT look in the mirror again. I left the bed, I left the room, went silently down the staircase and into the living room... To this day, I am still amazed that I did it. I smashed the mirror by throwing a candlestick at it, glass falling on the floor, beneath my naked feet. Only to return to bed as silently as I had left it. As I fell asleep, I heard Grandfather step into the living room. Strangely I was not afraid.

I was awakened by Elsa, looking terrified. My own fear returned again. I had never seen her so frightened before.

"Erik, get dressed quickly. Your best suit, my sweet boy, they're here."

"Who?"

"Your Father's family. The priest, who baptised you, is downstairs with a very fine lady."

"The very fine lady is right here. Erik, will you come with me to your aunt? She longs to see you."

I looked into the kindest eyes I had ever seen. In a round face, surrounded by little red curls. She was indeed very fine, dressed in green. Even I, with my limited experience, realised that it was an expensive dress. I had never seen such materials before. When I was done, she took my hand and escorted me downstairs, where the Priest was waiting with Monsieur. Madame, Madeleine and Elsa were nowhere to be seen. When we reached the bottom of the staircase and I found myself in front of the priest, the nice lady gently lifted the sack off.

Charles, I could not help it. My hands flew up to cover my face; I could not let her see it. I could not bear to have her recoil from me. I wanted nothing more than to move away from her, but I could not move. I felt frozen inside like one of the icicles hanging from the roof. I could not move, not even when a very familiar wetness trickled down my legs. I wanted to leave, to shrink away, to disappear, but I could not. I could not even weep in front of these two kind strangers. Soft hands pried my hands away and stroked my cheek with care and delicacy. I looked up into pitying eyes, big and glassy with unshed tears.

"Oh my God, what have they done to the poor child? Father, we must take him to the doctor first. Her Highness cannot see the poor boy as he is now."

"A good idea, Countess. I'm sure you will find that he is not as ugly once the skin has healed."

"Oh, he is not ugly now. Look at his beautiful eyes... his father's eyes. If you disregard the damaged skin... maybe let him wear a mask on the right side. The doctor will know what to do. And the letter said that the boy is intelligent, so he will always have other things to commend him to potential brides and their families. My late husband, bless him, had pock marks all over his body. But what his looks could not achieve his title and purse could. More than amply."

At this, she laughed, though her eyes did not look happy. I took her hand and she smiled at me. The Priest went to my other side and took my other hand. Like this they walked me to the door. There, I balked; I was not allowed to go outside and told the lady that. She turned and looked at my Grandfather, anger and disgust etched on her face.

"Would you be so kind to pay this monster for his 'services' to Her Highness's nephew, Father Karl? No, stay, Herr Epping, take one last look at your Grandson. You will never see him again. If you try to contact Erik, the allowance so graciously given to you will immediately be stopped and your daughter's dowry reclaimed. Do you understand?"

As Father Karl set a small purse on the floor, the lady turned around with me and walked out the door. I could feel Grandfather's eyes on my back as I walked down the staircase.

I shall never forget those steps, the joy of stepping out onto the street for the first time. Protected by the lady's cape I could look up at the apartment. Not being used to seeing the house from that perspective, I had trouble finding what I was looking for; Madeleine's window. I would not have found it if she had not been standing in the window. Her unfathomable eyes met mine for a short while, then passed to the rest of the visible part of me. I had never seen her look at me as she did in that moment. As if she could bear to look at me. Her eyes met mine again, still devoid of feeling. Then she turned away from the window and my happiness ended as suddenly as it had begun. I remembered why I was leaving; she did not want me – she did not love me. Something cold ran down my cheek and made it itch; tears. They were gently wiped away by the lady, who had also been looking up at Madeleine.

"Listen to me, Erik. This is important, little darling. You must never think of this dreadful place again, of these dreadful people. They did not deserve you, my boy. They do not deserve your tears."

She escorted me up into the awaiting carriage. I never looked back. I never went back to that street. I never asked about them. I did not want someone telling me the obvious truth; Madeleine, Elsa, Monsieur and Madame were much happier without me. I knew it, so why ask? I resolved to live as if they had never been in my life – indeed as I believed they did. But at night, in my new room, I would sometimes still go to the bigger window and look out towards Vienna and remember. I would remember that deep inside I was monstrous and could not be loved.

That remembrance, though now pale and weak, has stayed with me all my life. It was ingrained in my soul and with time passed from being a memory of people who could not love me to a general belief that people could not love me. You children and your mother taught me the wrongfulness of that belief and thereby reduced it to mere memories of past pain. But as you write, my darling boy, even memories can hurt. It hurt occasionally, so I hesitated in writing this to you. However, as I have been writing this, reliving this, it has hurt much less than I thought. In fact, it feels as if I were a puzzle whose pieces are finally coming together in a perfect fit. Are my old wounds healing?Perhaps your journey will work as an overdue catharsis for me. If this be the case, my son, ask me anything, see everyone who knew me as a child in Vienna, walk in my footsteps if you can bear it.

There is one thing you must never forget Charles, that I love you. No matter what you look like, who you look like, what you feel, what you conceal, what you show and ask. Nothing, no one, will ever change that.

Yours,

Papa

PS, the Rachmaninoff concert is exquisite. Mark my words, Charles; he will be a front-runner in this new century – him, Stravinsky and Sibelius. I feel it.

A further PS; your Mother, sisters (Mélie, Maddo and Rose) and brother (I had forgotten you called Gustave 'Stava' when you were little) send their love. We all miss you, too.


End file.
